


Inevitable

by out_of_style



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Forced Proximity, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Language, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pining, Rough Sex, This will not be a Slow Burn as much as it will be a-, Will be rated 'E' later on in the series!, Will stray a bit from canon, eventually, rather immediate volcanic eruption of attraction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 02:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16986588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_of_style/pseuds/out_of_style
Summary: It's been so many years since the war and so much has changed not just for the Wizarding World in general but for both Harry and Draco. Yet it seems that fate itself is determined to force the two together.





	Inevitable

Harry James Potter was, shockingly enough, not a person that suffered from perfection.

He was struggling immensely with his job. Imagine that, Harry Potter the bloody Failing Auror. 

Also, he rather thought that mobile phones were a certain type of magic he hadn't learned at Hogwarts. Clearly totems of the dark arts meant to be avoided at all costs. If there was anything within five feet of him that he could conceivably knock over or destroy to some extent- well, he would manage it every time.  
He was even willing to admit- after enough shots of fire whiskey- that his sex life was noticeably lacking. More on that later.

But, he had never thought, that the thing in his life he would find the most confusing, the most upsetting, and certainly the most emotionally taxing would be his marriage to a person he had once assumed to be the woman of his dreams. His soul mate, even. They were made for each other, or at least that's what everyone said. Yet, it sounded childish to even think that now. There had been passing moments, thoughts that he set aside in a well hidden hidden chamber of his mind. Fleeting worries that perhaps Miss Ginerva Weasley and himself were not quite the match everyone assumed they would be. 

However, they had married despite it all. Ginny and himself both assumed it was for the best, a decision made out of desire to put on a good face for the public. To land the Daily Prophet a cover story that might give people something to believe in after the war. That if there was a happily-ever-after for 'The Boy Who Lived' then perhaps they was hope for them all. That it was indeed possible to move on.

This marriage was laid upon a faulty foundation to begin with. But, regardless, they had been happy once. There were days still where their fingers would intertwine, his thumb lightly caressing the back of her hand and he could feel the warmth radiating there. Those days he would think that maybe, just maybe, they had done the right thing after all. Maybe he did love her after all.

He had to ask himself- were all marriages this way? If not, was this all his fault? It certainly felt like it was. Every argument, Ginny's sparkling brown eyes would glare at him nearly brimming over with tears, her fierce stare sending a clear message of accusation. Every time he'd feel guilt settling heavily in the pit of his stomach- so intense that he could barely stand it. Then, without fail, Harry would swiftly apologize, admit his supposed wrongdoings, and beg for her forgiveness. ("Ginny." He would say sheepishly, his head tilted down- eyes focused on the carpet. "I'm sorry for being a git.")He didn't mind taking the blame for the little things that went wrong around the house or being berated for forgetting important dates. But, tonight's topic of the day had been- well- rather different. 

"Ginny? Ginny, love, I'm sorry- let's talk this out!" He yelled earnestly into the darkness as he ran after his wife. She had fled from their flat after the last argument. The only response that arrived was the soft echo of his own words replaying back to him. It almost felt as if he was being mocked. 

Harry's pace on the cold concrete dropped to a stand-still, and he threaded his fingers through the disobedient chocolate curls atop his head. Laying his hands to rest momentarily on his shoulders- his lips formed an aggravated frown as he muttered curse words into the otherwise silent alleyway. What was he supposed to do now? They had only been married a few years and they were already having these ridiculous disagreements that seemedly to always escalate needlessly into full on screaming matches.

Last time, Harry had accidentally misplaced her broomstick and after /that/ she didn't speak a single word to him for 3 days. Three bloody days. Merlin's beard- they live together! The silent treatment. It wasn't as if they were still at Hogwarts, they were better then this. He had been relegated to the couch on those three days for, as far as he could figure, no reason at all. Honestly, he had found the broomstick for her that same day. But, because she had to use a spare broom for the game. And while it had been a close one, the Harpies lost that match. Ginny was furious, absolutely inconsolable, and blamed Harry for the entire thing. Even once she deigned to speak with him again, she would guilt him about it for months.

To be fair, they had their good days. Really good days- and nights too if memory served. That signature grin graced the Gryffindor's face as he reminisced. 'The only reason we argue so much is because we're both passionate- we just care so much about each other. That's all. It's almost a good thing if you think about it.' Harry thought to himself, not too sure who he was trying to convince- now aimlessly strolling down the street, his hands resting in the pockets of his Auror robes- he hadn't even bothered to change yet after the entire ordeal. 

 

The minutes seemed to just tick by him as he shuffled through the increasingly crowded streets- keeping his head down as much as possible. He was barely aware of his surroundings, lost in his own thoughts even amongst all the whispers and peering eyes. This ongoing issue with Ginny-- 

The only person he could recall ever fighting with this much was- well- Draco Malfoy. Bloody hell. When was the last time they'd seen each other? Potter furrowed his brows as he tried to think back. They hadn't parted on good terms at all- very on brand for the two of them. Because really they'd never been on good terms had they? Ever. Even after the War they had avoided each other. Say what you will about the pair of them, but they had a certain- spark. It seemed impossible to not feel -something- when he was around Malfoy. Even his magic reacted to him- a secret he'd never admitted to anyone. No way, that's one he's dragging down to his grave with him. 

Still...What would Malfoy think of all this trouble with Ginny? It wasn't exactly a subject he could really bring up with Ron for obvious reasons. So, Harry had been bottling up his feelings about the entire ordeal. Filled in a dusty bin in his mental warehouse of issues-that-must-not-be-thought-about-ever, right next to the file reading 'Uncomfortable Desire to Fuck A Certain Blonde Slytherin Git' and 'That One Time I Tried to Kiss Ron'. But, those were stories for another time. A ghost of a smile appeared on his face- he could almost picture it now- the two of them attempting to have a normal conversation. "What was that, Potter? Trouble in paradise with the Weaslette?" They never quite got the hang of 'normal.' 

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye he spotted a metallic sign with a fox symbol on it. After a quick glance around Harry frowned- he was certain he'd never seen this shop before. The building was brick, and the outside was covered in vines of lavender wisteria. It was strange, but Harry suddenly felt overwhelmed with the desire to enter. A nearly magnetic pull towards the door- like it was exactly what he'd been looking for. What he needed.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek for a moment thoughtfully, as he considered the establishment beside him. 'What could it hurt?' He thought with a shrug. After such a tumultuous series of circumstances, the day had left Harry feeling completely exhausted with- everything. He couldn't shake the feeling that this mysterious little store had an answer for him. 

\--Draco's POV--

Seven years.  
Just seven years.  
Strange, when he said it aloud it certainly didn't seem like such a very long time.

Then why was it, Draco wondered idly as those strikingly gray eyes stared blankly out of his shop's window, that these particular seven years had felt rather more like an eternity.

Spindly, delicate, fingers tapped rhythmically against the aged leather cover of his most treasured book from his personal collection- Moste Potente Potions. The bindings on this copy were almost as worn and over-stretched as Draco himself felt these days. However, the book brought back memories of- well, of before. Before the battles, before the war, before everything swiftly went to shit. The slender ex-Slytherin pressed his eyes shut, biting thoughtfully at his lower lip 'till it nearly swelled to a cherry tint. 

How could- no, how dare - seven years change his life so immensely? Life was relatively simple once for Draco. Well, being brought up as the quintessential exemplary pure blood son- and the only heir of the Malfoy line was a bit much for any child to take on. With that much responsibility on his shoulders it was almost excusable that he'd been such a little shit back then. Almost. But, he had known his place in the world and he wanted for little. His future had been set in stone for so long. He was to marry Astoria Greengrass and have several little blond Malfoy's running about the manor being spoiled despicable monsters just as he had been. Something something dark magic, something something Slytherin, etc and so on and so forth- but somehow that future that had once seemed so very overwhelming inevitable- slipped out from his grasp like so many drops of water. 

After the war, things began changing very quickly. So quickly, in fact, that if you weren't paying attention it was easy to get lost in the sheer momentum of it. But, the way people stared at you in the street. The way one too many curses seemed to fly -just- pass your head. Well- that was hard to miss. Not just for the Malfoys but for anyone at all who had been caught on the wrong side of the fence so to speak, or at least it had started that way. A flurry of legislation was passed by the Ministry, all of it unabashedly biased. First it was just former Death Eaters that were affected, then anyone who had the 'misfortune' of having been sorted into Slytherin at all during the War.

Most of them chose not to return to Hogwarts for their optional 8th year, and the few of them who had graduated without the scars to prove it. Draco found himself returning to the Manor that summer, to his weeping mother who cried onto his shoulders- in shambles as the Ministry signed away not only the Malfoy vaults, but even their ancestral home. War crimes, they had said. Their paltry explanation had given Narcissa Malfoy little peace. His mother was nothing if not a strong woman. She had always been the real pillar of the family but Draco worried for her more every day. 

While it was true that the years had not been kind to him financially or politically, this shop of his was something of a sanctuary. Draco saw to it's warding himself, and while he would bitterly admit that perhaps his magic wasn't on.. say- Potter's level in /certain/ areas, it was nothing to sneeze at either. It was a difficult place to find if you didn't know exactly what you were looking for- he had made certain of that much. In some ways it was more of a home than the Manor ever was.

Draco's little potion shop had no official name, although the 'official' records had given it a label and a number. But, all the regulars knew the little hole in the wall only by the discreet cast iron sigil of a fox that hung near the entrance. The store's shelves were fully stocked with a myriad of potions in bottles of various shapes and colors- Draco sold everything from Custom Made Polyjuice, Draught of Living Death, to even the most potent vials of Amortentia- all were arranged beautifully. Rare and exotic potions books from all corners of the earth were stacked with an obvious amount of care in the corners of the space- and right in the middle of it all was an elegant and well-loved sturdy mahogany desk (it was engraved with Nordic runes and the sacred phrase 'pansy was here'), where his employee /should/ have been standing. 

A familiar chime rang shrilly through the cozy little shop- indicating a visitor- pricked at Draco's ears and a frown curled its way onto his lips.

"Pansy, darling-" he began in his signature drawl. Without bothering to lift his stare, he carefully slid the book he had been holding back into it's place on the shelf, "Remind me. When I told you to come to work yesterday at 9, exactly what part of that did you interpret as 'tactlessly barrel into the shop an entire day late' ? I'm asking for future reference. Just, you know, so I can prepare myself for the disappointment next tim-" 

His gaze was still resting at floor level and he finally noticed that those shoes weren't right at all- no way Pansy would be caught dead in flats. Definitely not these scratched and unpolished-- monsters, either. Wait were- were those Auror robes? The frown deepened. How the bloody hell had they even gotten past the wards? For what reason were they even here? He had a very amicable (some might call it 'corrupt' if they wanted to be dramatic about it) deal with the Aurors, or so he had thought. A number of frantic thoughts raced through Draco's mind, his eyes narrowing as his gazes lifted and he stared into the eyes of the man that stood in front of him. Gray met green. 

"Harry Potter."

Draco had meant to yell some sort of uncharacteristic obscenity, truly he had. But the words left his lips as more of a disbelieving prayer. He got a hold of himself rather quickly though- lips pressed into a thin line as he raked his fingers (were they shaking?) through his own silver strands of hair. Resting his hands on the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Well, while it's ever such an honor to have the Golden Boy himself at my humble shop I'm afraid I must ask-" Bristled the pure blood, in a strained tone ringing of false pleasantries- his voice just slightly unstable- as if barely holding in his distaste. 

"Would you kindly get the bloody fuck out of my store?"

**Author's Note:**

> Some lines/idea here were pulled from some of my other works. Also, this began as an intro for a roleplay (yes I do infact dabble in H/D RPs. I can't help myself.) I don't know if that's relevant to anyone but its true. This work is un-beta'd but as usually I did try to do my own spell and fact checking, I promise!! If things don't line up I'll try to fix it as best I can but I mean- if JK stopped caring about canon then what even are the rules anymore guys? 
> 
> I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT. I'm just glad I'm writing more tbh. Hopefully I'll improve with time lol


End file.
